Master of the Bow
Master of the Bow
Aslan approached the mechanical corpse sprawled dead on the ground. The machine still twitched, but the movement wasn't life—just residual electrical signals jerking the limbs.
The Predator's priests always had high defense, but the damage multipliers for striking their weak points were disproportionately extreme.
With its core shattered, this priest had nowhere to hide from death.
Stymphalos was dead. Aslan forced down the crawling disgust as he looked at the priest he'd finished with his own hands. The sensation of taking—it never stopped being repulsive, no matter how many times he felt it.
He wasn't suited for combat. Aslan let out a breath, thinking that.
But he still had to do it. No one else could. Aslan stepped to Stymphalos's remains and picked up the feather cloak.
A metallic rustle rang out as the brass-alloy feathers scraped against each other, clear enough to be almost musical.
Aslan took the cloak and wrapped it around himself.
On the priest—easily over two meters tall—it had barely covered the hips. On Aslan, it fell past his knees.
The cloak was called the Wings of Stymphalos.
A defensive item you could only get by killing Stymphalos completely—a priest modeled after the Stymphalian birds from one of Heracles's twelve labors. This cloak was precisely why Aslan had prioritized the Mountain Kingdom's alliance, and why he'd insisted on hunting Stymphalos with Tiyamal.
The Wings were that good.
High defense, full-body coverage, all the advantages of being a cloak—easy to wear other armor underneath—and you could pluck a feather at any moment to use as a dagger. In another game, you'd call it a unique-grade piece.
'A fine acquisition. Just as planned.'
Aslan secured the cloak around himself and turned his head at the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Well done. Fine work out there."
"Ah, well. You did most of it...."
Tiyamal had been about to answer modestly, but after rolling his eyes for a moment, he grinned.
Aslan's monstrous display and some indefinable pressure had almost made him humble, but that didn't suit him at all.
"I am rather impressive, I suppose. No one else could land that shot at that range."
So Tiyamal preened as usual, and Aslan let out a dry, halfhearted laugh.
KUUUNG...!
A detonation rolled in from the city. The roar reached them from a distance, and Tiyamal closed his eyes, his scales bristling.
The wind that brought the sound told him what was happening in the city.
Two priests. Something huge and powerful was fighting there.
Tiyamal opened his eyes and turned to Aslan, his expression grim.
"Hey. There's another priest. In the city...."
"I know."
"Huh? You do? Then we should go help—"
"No need."
Aslan shook his head, voice low. Tiyamal wrinkled his nose at the man's composure.
Aslan saw the Dragon-kin's tail scuffing the ground in puzzlement and let out a quiet 'ah.'
"Did I not mention it?"
Seeing Tiyamal's skeptical expression, Aslan turned to look toward the city.
The thudding from that direction was too fast, too continuous to belong to a single being.
"They don't need help. They've already got overkill firepower."
Angie, Fay, Ereta, and Frida were all in the city.
Compared to that, the priest was "only one."
Aslan jerked his chin at Tiyamal, who still looked confused.
"Let's go watch."
*
SHWAAAK!
Fay launched off a stone, spinning as her two shortswords slashed in a vicious arc. The blade carried force that shouldn't have come from a frame that small.
She'd cut precisely at the joint, and even a priest with self-repair faltered for a moment.
In that gap, Angie charged. She'd only just seen this thing moments ago, but that was enough. Strength and agility beyond reason drove her forward.
WHUUUUM—CRAAASH!
Arms crossed in front of her, she slammed into the bull-like priest like a chain collision. The massive bulk tumbled backward.
THUD. CRU-UNCH.
The enormous body rolled across the ground, gouging a long trench and kicking up dust.
The bull tried to right itself, legs scrambling from an overturned position, and Fay was on it again. Leap and slash came almost as one motion—the kind of precision that could drive a blade through a knight's visor mid-jump. Fay's sword punched cleanly through the gap in the armor.
Landing on the bull's shoulder joint, Fay twisted her body and pulled. She used both shortswords like levers, and the armor plates scattered.
CLAAAANG!
The flesh beneath was exposed—between the plates, machine-mimicked muscle.
"Throw—throw!"
Javelins rained down onto the exposed muscle. The warriors' thrown spears carried far more destructive force than simple javelins should have.
KA-KA-KANG. BOOM!
Some missed. Several didn't. They lodged deep between the shattered plates, and the bull-priest thrashed.
"Ex-ceeding projected combat scenarios. Re-formulating response strategy."
The voice crackled with static as the bull's body began to glow. Heat surged, armor glowing red-hot. Fay, who'd been about to pounce again, backflipped into the shadows and vanished. Angie withdrew. The embedded javelins melted into slag.
As the molten metal pooled on the ground, someone burst through.
Frida and her beast.
A bear cub with werewolf blood—a grotesque hybrid—and the great chieftain wielding twin curved swords. She lunged, blade and claw striking together.
"GRAAAH!"
Frida's piercing howl rang out as her crossed swords hammered the bull's hind legs, and her beast followed, claws raking upward. The bull flipped with a heavy boom.
Frida's blades danced across the overturned body, armor plates shearing away in showers. The heat had softened them, crippled their defense.
The bull could do nothing. Every prepared tactic had been neutralized. Too many different opponents—every countermeasure was shattered as soon as it formed.
It needed a different response. The bull raised a still-functional leg—a gambit, nothing less—and flame gathered at the hoof.
Heat bled into the air. Things melted. It wouldn't be able to fire again until it received repairs, but breaking the current deadlock mattered more.
The priest's judgment was sound. No one here could stop that flame—except perhaps Aslan.
But a person wasn't required. Ereta stepped forward, and the mace left her hand.
CRACK!
A laughably small impact. Not even real damage. It was just a thrown mace.
The thrown mace plugged the flame's muzzle.
"Poor thing, did a thorn get stuck in your hoof?"
Mocking words. The delighted laugh of a woman who'd spent her life inflicting pain—though she secretly, unknowingly, loved receiving it too.
Ereta spun and brought her axe down on the mace, driving it deeper into the socket.
"Ta-da."
Then she stepped back. The bull, unable to release the built-up pressure, exploded.
KWA-BOOOOOM!
Flames surged, licking across the surroundings. Inside the inferno, the bull let out a sound that failed to become a scream—a metallic shriek.
—!
The only sound it could make: the wail of its own turbine. Angie rushed into that wailing blaze.
CRAAAASH!
She drove her fist upward. The bull was hurled backward and tumbled awkwardly across the ground.
Tiyamal watched the one-sided slaughter, his mouth slightly open.
"What the... I've never felt sorry for a priest before."
He was right. A demigod reduced to a sandbag—beaten senseless by a handful of humans who'd reached the limits of martial skill, a few peak human warriors, and one last descendant of the ancient gods.
Aslan observed the scene and spoke casually.
"I'm not an idiot who boasts without a winning hand. I only act confident when I know I'll succeed."
Tiyamal took his meaning well enough.
The goal of killing an Evil God was so vast that no one could be sure it was possible—but a priest, right here and now? That could be done. Smoothly, without significant waste.
Watching the dying priest, Tiyamal felt a flash of bewilderment. Aslan continued past it.
"I'm going to gather masters, bind people together, and stand against the Evil Gods."
Would it work? No one knew. No one had ever seen an Evil God directly. No one had ever stood against one. The odds were unknown.
But judging by what was right in front of him—it looked possible.
If they could fight like that.
CRASH. CLAAAANG!
Angie's fists hammered into the bull one after another, and the creature staggered back. Its armor was shattered, scattered—it looked incapable of fighting on—but it tried something nonetheless.
Its superheated armor glowed crimson. The bull planted three legs, wobbling.
One last move. A final gambit to flip the table. Everyone present saw it coming. Tiyamal looked at Aslan, who was watching him silently.
"Shoot."
One quiet word. Tiyamal understood what Aslan was setting up.
The only way for Tiyamal to avoid execution was a deed no one could deny. A heroic moment.
Aslan had built the stage for that moment.
Tiyamal let out a short, breathy laugh and stripped off his upper garment. The hot wind snatched it away, but he paid no attention, raising his bow.
He nocked an arrow and drew. The steel bowstring keened, a metallic whine.
At this range, Tiyamal didn't even need to be fully unclothed to avoid a miss.
He pulled the string down as if lowering a mountain, then released. The arrow left the string with a hollow boom.
KWA-JIJIJIJIK!
It punched through the bull. Plates that had withstood Angie's fists gave way. The arrow tore through the whole body and burst out the back of the bull's neck. Molten metal splattered like blood across the ground.
The bull stopped. With a fading mechanical whine, it died. Aslan nudged Tiyamal from behind, and the Dragon-kin surged forward.
"UWOOOOOOH!"
He roared. Swinging a weapon at an enemy was deeply strange to Tiyamal.
Not something he enjoyed, but what was needed now was spectacle. On instinct, he understood.
The spike at the bow's tip gleamed, then tore into the bull's wounds. The embedded bow shaft howled—the turbine's shriek deafening.
Red-scaled muscle bulged. Tiyamal let out a near-monstrous bellow, raising the bow high. The bull, impaled on it, rose with him.
KWAAAAAANG!
He hurled it down.
The bull crashed to the ground and crumpled like crushed soft metal, scattering fragments. Through the flying debris, Tiyamal hoisted his bow.
"Witness! Elder Tiyamal has slain the priest!"
He capped the performance with a flourish. The warriors and Frida, who had been frozen, stared in confusion.
"The Desecrator of the Holy Mountain...!"
"Seize him."
One of the warriors pointed at Tiyamal, shouting. Several moved to obey Frida's order to grab him—
Shrrrk.
—and stopped when Aslan stepped in, his feather cloak chiming with that clear, musical sound.
His sudden appearance, his easy smile. Before the warriors could react, Aslan had already spoken first.
He was the Master of Combat. Reading the moment and seizing the initiative was his specialty.
"Is he truly the Desecrator?"
A low question. The warriors frowned. Frida's eyes narrowed. Aslan made a show of looking around.
The warriors, following his gaze without thinking, finally noticed.
Tiyamal's theatrical performance and war cry had drawn every hidden eye in the city to him.
Frida caught on, her expression twisting. Aslan smiled.
"From where I stand, he looks like a hero who's brought down two priests. Are you sure he's the Desecrator?"
CLANK. Aslan dropped the priest's corpse he'd been carrying. The metallic upper body rolled across the ground, and Frida made a face that said she understood exactly what he was doing.
"Still an insufferable brat."
Her voice was barbed with irritation. Aslan answered with an awkward smile.
"Couldn't you accept it as your little brother's mischief, sister?"
"Only when it suits you. You insufferable shit."
Frida's gaze swept the surroundings. The warriors' reactions were poor—they clearly weren't swallowing the idea that the Desecrator was a hero.
The people, however, reacted well. The faces peering from hiding places were bright as they looked at Tiyamal.
Because few of them knew much about the Desecration of the Holy Mountain.
The actual desecration hadn't been publicly announced, and the intention was to declare it on the day of execution.
Besides, the damaged part was a mountain peak—no human eye could see it.
Only visible on the clearest of days, and so the people had no trouble seeing Tiyamal as an unambiguous hero.
Frida read the room that much and clicked her tongue.
With a thoroughly displeased expression, she spoke flatly to Tiyamal.
"Our thanks for your aid, Master of the Bow."
The warriors' faces soured like they'd bitten into shit, but Tiyamal's expression was the opposite.
He chuckled and thumped the ground with his tail.
"Think nothing of it. Only what's expected of a master."
Frida growled at the smug reply, then aimed her irritation back at Aslan.
She had no recourse. Displeased as she was, Tiyamal was a hero now, and there was nothing to be done about it.
Her resentment toward the Holy Mountain's damage wasn't deep enough to act against him either, so Frida accepted the loss.
"...Let's go. Send the wounded to the healers and patrol the city perimeter."
"Yes."
The warriors dispersed. Frida retreated. Tiyamal approached Aslan.
"You're a sly one, aren't you?"
He clapped Aslan on the shoulder, laughing. Aslan gave a slight smile.
"We're close. I figured this much was fine."
He caught Frida's irritated glare as she walked away and thought that he really hoped the closeness wasn't one-sided.